A cry went up from the gathered nobles, a scattered chant of “Long live the king!” that reverberated off the walls until the self-styled King Hamon himself raised his arms for silence.
A hush fell across the crowd as an Arathian woman swept into the room. A woman he had never seen before.
A woman he immediately wished he would never see again.
She was tall, her presence commanding enough to suck the very air from the hall. Robes of crimson silk flowed around her like fresh blood, leaving her arms bare to the shoulder. Gold chains cascaded from her throat, shivering with every step she took. Her hair was a curtain of ink, framing a face of devastating, terrifying beauty.
But it was her eyes that made Tiberius’s stomach sour.
Golden. Unnatural. Predatory.
A witch. Their king had brought a witch into the very heart of Elmoria.
“And here to help me ring in this new era of strength and prosperity is my Lady Chancellor, Samira,” King Hamon decreed. “She who not only speaks for the Lady Below but also for the kingdoms of Arath and Drakmor.”
Samira stopped at the foot of the dais, turning slowly to survey the room. Her gaze swept over the gawking nobles, dismissive and cool, before settling on the crowd with a predator’s patience.
“How fortunate you all are,” she called out, her voice a sultry purr that carried to the farthest corners of the room, “to have a king so skilled in the art of diplomacy that in a single night, he has accomplished what the de la Croix woman could not.”
In her hands, she lifted a scroll case Tiberius had not even noticed before as she cried, “Peace amongst Elmoria, Arath, and Drakmor! At last, the two-hundred-year peace has been restored!”
Scattered applause rang out. Murmurs of approval. Whispers of fear.
Samira lowered the scroll case and flashed a bright smile to the room. “Who will be first?” she asked, so innocently. “Who will be first to swear themselves to His Majesty?”
Hesitation meant death. He knew that as surely as he knew the sun would rise.
He did not hesitate.
Shoving past a trembling viscount, Tiberius stalked toward the dais and flung himself to his knees before it, head bowing in submission. “Your Majesty,” he declared, loud enough for all to hear. “House Beaumont stands with you. Long live King Hamon!”
From above him, a scoff drifted down.
“Does it truly, my son?”
Tiberius risked lifting his head. The new king frowned down at him, his expression curdling with displeasure.
“I have heard,” Coreto—no, Hamon—hissed softly, leaning forward so that only those nearest the dais could hear, “that it was you who let the little doe get away.”
The little doe. He could only mean Seraphina.
“I was bringing her to you, Your Majesty,” Tiberius lied, pitching his voice to a desperate whisper. “I had her. I was bringing her to you when your men tried to shoot her down. So I thought—”
“It is not your place to think,” Hamon cut him off, his eyes narrowing to slits. “My plans have changed, Tiberius. I no longer need her alive, but dead.”
But why?That was what he wanted to ask, but dared not. What had changed in the span of a single day to make him abandon his desire for a Threston-de la Croix alliance?
Hamon continued, a clear threat lacing through his tone: “If you were not married to my dear Catherine already…” But he did not finish the thought.
Then again, he did not have to.
“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I was merely trying to help you, but I see now I was in error.” Tiberius wet his lips before delicately adding, “But having the de la Croix woman marry your son is still the best plan, is it not? It is the only way the High Shepherd will ever accept your claim.Lothmeer—”
“I do not fear the High Shepherd!” Hamon snapped. “Nor do I fear the Holy Lothmeeran Emperor. Why would I, when the Lady shines Her favor upon me?”
Tiberius’s blood ran cold.
Against his better judgment, he shot a look toward the witch. Samira still stood there before the dais, watching him with those uncanny golden eyes of hers. A small, knowing smile played upon her crimson lips.
